Dustland Lullaby
by Misdiagnosed Ghost
Summary: Just because you're a woman doesn't make you any less of a warrior with a shotgun.
1. Chapter 1

**Dustland Lullaby**

 _ **Type**_ **:** _Collective ones-shots._

 _ **Rating**_ _: Mature._

 **Summary:** _Just because you're a woman doesn't make you any less of a warrior with a shotgun._

 _ **Genre**_ _: Romance. Adventure. Hurt/Comfort. Family._

 **-I-**

" **Shotgun Sinner. The Saint of the Waste."**

Mable White was a fidgety girl with fidgety taste.

She's a strange girl. Polite in a sense. Quiet the next; the round rim of her glasses and the thickness of the lens made her an easy target to ridicule. But she did well enough for herself, tried her best to feel and act normal; always trying to brush back blond hair that tended to tangle easily, or always straightening out and pulling at the collar of her jumpsuit when she felt burdened with something; she would bite her bottom lip a lot, correcting herself before she looked too vulnerable in front of her fellow peers. She had funny quirks, but was likeable enough by some adults and a few kids her own age.

Most people knew she hated talking and explaining herself. It left a lot of the vault dwellers bewildered considering that they were social creatures of the earth and Vault. No secrets were safe within the halls; it was always haunted by some form of story that could either be true or not. Mable White, however, had plenty of secrets and stories, and she spun them like a professional. Her witty, mercurial personality could either be looked at as a boon or a curse. When asked by others, _'just how did you come up with these funny little tales?'_ She would reply, "I read it once in a book. You should try it sometime."

Mable spent her childhood under florescent lighting, listening to the white noise of her father's clinic: the hum of a heart monitor in the distance, or the buzzing of electricity from overhead; now that she wanders the Wastes, or occupies a sleepy hollow of her home in Megaton, she can't find the same comfort to sleep like she did under the vault; she's blinded by the moon, haunted by the sun, and is still weary of the consuming skies overhead. To anyone, being fearful of the outside seemed off, but coming from a girl that took comfort in the ground, underneath earth and metal and regulated air conditioning - the outside was daunting.

Breeching the surface was traumatic enough for her, having Hell nip at her heels. The air of the Wastes was so dry that she couldn't stop the random nose bleeds, nor the painful way it rattled her sinuses; her lungs constricted, and she felt early convulsions shake her to the core. She wasn't accustomed to the unhealthy conditions of the Wastes. She had no idea that even touching the waters of the earth would burn the tips of her fingers; well, she did; but she was so thirsty at the time, and barely had enough caps to purchase a bottle of fresh water. Even under the glare of the sun, she found no solace; her fair skin wasn't use to the overexposure to ultraviolet light, and given time, freckles dotted her face and nipped at her shoulders; she spent the first two days in some backwater hotel trying to recuperate from the trauma of the Wastes and its side effects. She spent another week curled up in a ball, trying to battle through a sickness that was a product of the food and water that she consumed topside.

Mable missed the depths of the earth, cold and quiet; the only sound present in the halls was the chattering of conversation, rhythmic stomping of guards, and air filtration circulating the systems. She missed her father's small smiles, and the way that his pen scratched over his clipboard. She missed normal food, and clean water, and freshly pressed jumpsuits.

To many across the Wastes, she's the infamous _Shotgun Sinner_ , a peace keeper to plenty. Just a Vault kid that knew how to pull out her own brand of gun diplomacy. A desert saint. Where she lacked in social ethics, she made up for it in kindly times with her paragon ways. She knew the usage of no, knew not to turn her back on a stranger, and always had time to exchange a song and tale; she wasn't stonehearted, but understood the properties of 'please' and 'no' out in the Wastes did not apply to its vocabulary.

So she adapted.

-I-

"I've told you: this means nothin'. Just couldn't let my best gal to rummage alone on the Wastes," Butch is weary as he peers out heavenward, watching the churning of smog-smitten skies that hung heavy around decaying buildings, ominously tilting and eroding away with age; ever so often rubble would move, glass would crunch under heels, and it would spur him closer to match Mable's unbreakable stride over a concrete graveyard. He covered his discomfort with smug undertones, and crooked smirks he would send her way to prove his point, biting down on the edge of his lit cigarette to settle his nerves.

Mable had no problem. Her resolve always seemed intact even with her ever fleeting mind; she barely noticed Butch's wayward attitude. She was too busy pinning at the locations on her Pip-Boy, a faint light glaring off the pane of her glasses.

"I asked if you wanted to join, and you joined. I'm not overthinking this." Mable stares up from the interface of her Pip-Boy, taking in her surroundings for a moment before returning her focus on their trail. "Try as you might; I'll let you believe anything to justify how you see this. I'm just surprised you came out with a do-gooder." Mable pauses for a moment, before slowing nodding her head with a soft smile etched in.

"Thank you for coming out with me, anyways. It means a lot, really."

"Don't mention it, Nosebleed."

The rucksack on her back jingled with her hurried walk; for a moment, watching her pace ahead of him, Butch casually wondered how such a skinny twig like Mable could survive in the vast unknown of the Wastes; she dodged hell and bullet showers, and still held her wit like a cross to her chest; it was a fragile existence, but it was still intact and held together with dignity and grace. She conned her way to the top with feminine charm. Butch didn't know if he should be afraid, or attracted to such a power. For a safe bet, Butch placed all his faith in being deathly afraid and stayed attracted from afar.

Hell, Butch watched Mable talk some square into running headlong through enemy gunfire for a Nuka-Cola once; just because she promised the man an opportunity in the indulgence of a threesome with her and some random broad with a Nuka-Cola addiction. Of course he died the moment he stepped out of the settlement, packing whatever pistol to this thigh, leaving Butch and Mable to watch his untimely demise - with no loss of sleep on their end. That man hauled ass like any man who's ever been offered a threesome with two pretty women out in the middle of the god-damned Wastes.

Butch knew if the man was successful in obtaining his end of the bargain Mable would have placed her own brand of bullet into the man's skull for being a creep and not laying off the girl Mable was helping. And if she didn't – Butch would've been more than obliged to his own score of vigilantly justice for once outside the Vault, because fuck any man or woman who decides to talk Mable up when she is obviously uncomfortable with the unwanted attention.

Butch knew he wouldn't have to resort in killing the man. Mable would have done it regardless. He remembered once, right before the G.O.A.T., that she frogged him good for teasing Amata – right in the face, too. Butch likes to pinpoint that's when he fell in love with her; he loved a girl that could kick his ass. He stared up at Mable with her fist clenched, and returned her glare with a goofy grin on his own - even while blood dripped from his nose and down his lips with her blow.

They made it to the edges of irradiated, lapping waters. A cross stood alone, chipped away and nailed together with care. Mable tried her best to push away the rubble and trash that would clutter over time, hands digging into charred earth and broken fragments of concrete. Butch simply snubbed the remains of his cigarette out of respect under his Vault issued boots, idly waiting for Mable to take her place on the ground first before he followed her movement; he knelt down in front of the cross, examined the makeshift grave, and merely nodded in acknowledgement.

"So this is where the ol' doc is restin' now," Butch hummed, not really sure what to make out of this situation. He felt as nervous as if he were standing in front of live Doctor James. He could just picture the distain on the doctor's face; he knew the doctor disliked him. The doctor, of course, had a damn good reason to hate him for the way he treated his daughter.

"No. Not really sure where the Enclave disposed of his remains after the project siege. They didn't really give me the chance to gather my father – nor, did my father for that matter," Mable looked over the empty grave with a feeble glance. She looked like a child scolded. "This is the best I could do. I guess it's my own form of closure."

"Sure. I get it. Always respected your old man. He never had anything really mean to say to anyone. Fixed my Ma up on more than one occasion. But hell, did he jab me hard in the arm with those needles during my physicals." Butch reached out, fingers skimming over the makeshift cross to test its stability, tracing over a painted name that's faded over a short amount of time. "I mean he dug into the muscle. Like it was his own form of a damn switchblade."

"I wonder why," Mable's hollow-point grin pressed thin on her lips, "I away did come back to our living quarters with some new story about _that one kid down the hall_ who wouldn't leave me alone."

"Ah. Well, ya know. Maybe he just knew I couldn't keep my hands off his daughter." There's a brief chuckle, and it leaves Butch to finally sit back on the ground with Mable while she rolled her eyes over the stupidity of his childlike flirting; it left Butch to silently reminisce about Vault life and childhood with that certain look on her face. "I'm makin' my amends now, girl. Might as well come visit the ol' man considering our circumstance." Butch waited for Mable to scavenge through the lining of her bag, hoisting two bottles of purified water out and a flask of scotch: the doctor's favorite.

"Gotta ask for a blessing," Butch added.

"Even though we've already married. Never took you for a man to ask for a father's blessing. It's uncharacteristic if you'd ask me." Mable deadpanned, shoving the bottle water into Butch's grasp; he stopped her shy, grasping the wrist that held his bottle. Mable studied their position and his expression, and she could only shake her head in exasperation, but amusement soon prickled at the sides of her mouth. She's been too tired to sleep as of lately, and it was starting to drag her down. Butch kept his even smile, pulled her forward, and gave her a playful kiss in all the deliria.

He accepted the water with his other hand, hesitantly letting her wrist slip from his grasp with the other. "Well, good thing I'm not askin' you, right? Gotta get in good with pops, babe. God knows he wanted to poison me with whatever you two holed away in the clinic."

"He wouldn't dare. Though, I wouldn't put it pass him if he found the opportunity – desirable. He certainly had a means and a way," Mable uncapped her bottle, took her first sip, and then downed the remainder over her father's empty grave.

"Thanks babe, you always know how to make a man feel secure underneath all this weather." He tipped his bottle in her direction, took his own sip, and then followed Mable's example of dumping the water over the rubble. "Here's to you, doc."

They left the flask untouched and nestled under the cross.


	2. Chapter 2

**Dustland Lullaby**

 ** _Type_** **:** _Collective ones-shots._

 ** _Rating_** _: Mature._

 **Summary:** _Just because you're a woman doesn't make you any less of a warrior with a shotgun._

 ** _Genre_** _: Romance. Adventure. Hurt/Comfort. Family._

 **-II-**

" **Slaver Games and Soft Hymns."**

Mable waves the smoke out of her face when Butch draws near; he's bickering about something, yelling the next, and he's hovering all too close. All she can comprehend is the consuming smoke that floods her senses, and the ash that she can actually taste on her tongue. She can hear static, and she only assumes that the buzzing is coming from her Pip-Boy. In a desperate moment in trying to reach reality, she remembers an annoying hum of a song – something about sunning and flowers and Three Dog harping about one end of the Wastes to the next, talking about actual trees that spring to life; the tune's been haunting her for the past month, and the repetition of the little song refuses to leave her.

"Wake up, girl! Wake up!" Butch's fingers dig into her shoulder blade; the incoming missile shook her, and all Mable can see is white light; she holds her breath, and panics when she actually believes she's fallen prey to death. Anxiety nips at the back of her thoughts, and it rattles her own being – any second now, she'll see her father at the end of all that drowning, luminous light. She's in complete shock, and she loathes it; this fight was almost over, and she wouldn't be around to see it come together.

Butch is left alone, huddled behind a barricade with several slaves and a couple of children Mable tried to escort out. Butch should have calmed her when she witnessed Eulogy backhand one of the women she couldn't buy out from under him; it took many hours to lay out some sort of deal. Mable even offered a month's worth of pay just to have those two women come with her; it would have set him and Mable back in a financial slump, but she hardly cared. She wanted – had to – save those women. Sadly, her barter was all in vain, and he automatically tore down her handsome offer with a bitter smile. Watching Eulogy treat those women like trash tore down her sensible side. She could deal with the sleazy men eyeing her, but hurting other women rubbed her raw.

Butch should have stepped in her crosshairs when she threatened to hoist her shotgun like daybreak. But the alarm went off way before he could put two-and-two together, and found that his wife killed the main man in charge - right in the middle of Paradise Falls for all to see; she blasted his skull wide open, scattering brain fragments that only served to startle the two sex slaves by his side. Mable had that funny look to her, like she found twenty caps in a gutted desk sort of satisfaction.

"Is she going to be all right?" One of the slaves leans over Butch's shoulder, and he has to snap back to give Mable some space, knocking the woman's hand away who touched his shoulder while he tried to assist the situation for the rest of them; he doesn't respond, but instead peeks over the blocked barricade and watches two straggling slavers advance. A couple shots ring out, and he quickly pulls himself back down and against the structure that protected them all. Clearly, he's not in the right state of mind.

With an auditable sigh, Butch comes to the conclusion that his wife is incapacitated; he rummages through her belongings, eyes shifting from his perch to the remaining slavers that dared to come closer and closer. He tenses when he hears the older of the slaves, Breadbox, scream out. "We're over here! Over here!" The old man waved his arms madly, and it only spurred the surviving slavers to drawl near.

"Shut that ol' man up, why don't ya? One of you: shut him up!" Butch hissed over his shoulder, fumbling with Mable's grenades that hung off her utilities belt. There's panic in his eyes when he finally obtains a grenade from her belt, taking the moment to linger his gaze over her pale face. "We're goin' to make it out of here, babe. I promise you. You and all these people will make it." Her face is solemn; her skin is stained in blood and dust, the smell of gunfire and fresh copper was all-consuming. She doesn't reply back, only slumps to one side.

"Breadbox, please!" Bleak, the slave that tried to comfort Butch in this tight squeeze, is the first to quiet the old man down. "We're going to be free! Can't you see that? Free!"

"They'll catch us! They always do! And soon they'll have two new additions," Breadbox's voice pinched, his voice rough and brittle; a shell of a man that Butch never wished to become; it made him grit his teeth together at the mere thought of being dominated by the inhuman, and allowing Mable to suffer the same folly. "We're never truly free!"

"Only because you say so doesn't make it true! These good people right here are showing us. C'mon, Breadbox, the war is over. We can finally leave. They cannot hurt us anymore, but only if we work hard for it!" Bleak chokes on the remainder of her words, and it only pushes Butch to try harder; seeing a woman in these conditions – these people – only made him think of Mable and 'what if' scenarios; he hated watching women cry.

Bleak swallows her sorrow down, and the old man watches; his voice has died thirty years ago, but watching the younger generation of slaves struck something foreign and it leaves him deathly silent amongst the calamity of gunfire and bombs and bloody yelling. The reality of tasting freedom only reminded him that he has no idea what to do outside of caged walls.

Butch haled a frag grenade over the wall of the makeshift barricade. There's delayed screams, and a heart pounding explosion follows and it knocks them all behind the barricade; dust scatters, and the sickening crash of flesh hitting earth echoed off the concrete. This fight has lasted two hours. For the first time - in a long time - Butch can finally catch his breath. The slaves and the children rounded the corner and found the area devoid of life other than their own.

Butch slumps next to Mable.

 **-II-**

"The name: Breadbox derives from a slavers game," Mable said casually, looking over her shoulder to catch Butch's bewildered glance. He watches her drag the bodies of the slavers into one pile, set aside for an evening pyre; she finds no respect in this funeral and only sees it as a way to delude the chances of diseases and flesh eating bacteria. "That slave, the old man, his name is Breadbox." She still looks shaken by the battle. That slaver hoard really did a number on her, and she was paying for it by her dreary approach and throbbing headache; there's work to be done, however. 'No rest for the wicked,' was a philosophy Mable lived by.

Butch merely nods, "So I've been told by the others." He paces next to her, leaning over to help her with the burden of moving the bodies from one end of the settlement to the other end. She looks up at him with silent gratification, but she's not pleased with whatever is on her mind. Butch only figured she was embarrassed that he had to drag her through the muck this time, rather than her saving him; it's usually how their big shoot outs ended.

"Well, it's a game usually preformed on new slaves," her lips thinned at the morbid thought, but Butch wasn't following yet. She could see that, and she was struggling with this little tippet; if she didn't tell anyone – it would have hounded her and made her sick. " _'See what'll fit inside a breadbox.'_ I heard one slaver say; the first time I heard that term was when I was stumbling around the Wastes – just me and Dogmeat. And this man, he was standing over a little girl. She had to be only ten. And he taunted her with that phrase, 'See what'll fit inside a breadbox.' I saved that little girl, and I didn't really think over the hidden message it implied, not until I was cornered myself with it in the Wastes."

Butch halted, but Mable continued on in her work, refusing to meet his gaze. "It had to be a month after I left the Vault. I was so foolish and driven, I didn't listen to the locals' warnings about being careful on the open roads, just pass D.C. Well, one Raider held me up, cornered me against one of the ramshackle buildings. Just him and I. I was so damned tired, and he was approaching me too fast. Repeating that horrid phrase _, 'See what'll fit inside a breadbox.'_ And it hit me. I finally understood what it stood for, and why I hated it so much; it was a term held desirably to all slavers. I lost it. I ran forward, and refused to let him have his way with me," Mable's fingers faltered on Eulogy's clothing; he was faced down in a puddle of his own blood, and she was dragging his skull across the pavement. "I bashed his head in with the butt end of my rifle. I couldn't stop. Even when he was finally dead – I just kept going. Breadbox goes by a nickname that's destroyed him. They raped him, and broke him by giving him that name. Good god -,"

"-I hate it out here. There's been nothin' good underneath all this sky," Butch says, and he means it. When he approaches her, Mable stops him with a look that told him to hold his pity for another time; she didn't need it. Butch wasn't a man that often shared pity, anyways.

"I find no love out here, but we'll make do. I'm just sorry that I couldn't keep my emotions intact when it came to this grimy bastard. But when I saw those girls - it made me think: what if I had daughters in that position."

"Do not dare apologize to me for that, and that will never happen," Butch cuts her off, seething at the mere thought; they were still young. Still roaming and adventuring. The thought of children never graced their minds. Not in this mutated hellhole. "I'd be a dead man before I allow that to ever happen. Here. Give me that. You're the nerdy tech in the group girl, go bother yourself with those weird collars around 'em peoples' necks. Set them straight; you're a lot better at consoling than me." With that, Butch took the burden of hoisting Paradise Fall's leader, and dragging him away. Far away from Mable's direction.

He just wanted to get the hell out of here.


	3. Chapter 3

**Dustland Lullaby**

 _ **Type**_ **:** _Collective ones-shots._

 _ **Rating**_ _: Mature._

 **Summary:** _Just because you're a woman doesn't make you any less of a warrior with a shotgun._

 _ **Genre**_ _: Romance. Adventure. Hurt/Comfort. Family._

 **-III-**

" **Love Letters."**

"Love letters," Butch inquired with a sneer, leaning forward on his knees, his thighs brushing against Mable's inner thighs. Mable seemed less amused by his show of male dominance; she toyed with her Pip-Boy whist enjoying her first, true night spending it in a real bed rather than some random cot left abandoned by some Raider she decided to kill for it. "What do _you_ mean you've received love letters?"

"Bah, it's not like I still receive them. Sometimes. I was just telling you about their existence. You know? Something funny I just remembered about my first couple days in the Wastes."

"Sometimes? So they still come in?" Mable took his pause as a sign to look up from the interface of her Pip-Boy. She couldn't help the smug expression that kissed her features, watching her former bully hover over her with a sign of distaste about the subject; his fingers dug into the pillows by her head, and he positioned his hips closer to hers, idly inciting friction between the two. The material of his rough trousers pressing down on her thinner underclothes seemed charming enough. "You're a stubborn dame."

Mable presented herself unfazed by the conversation and his delivery to foreplay, she wasn't all there to begin with. "There are four marked by an older gentleman named Mister Burke, thirty-seven years my senior. It was like talking to Satan himself; wearing only casual clothing, a pistol strapped to his hip, and he fed me honeyed words," Mable noticed the thin line of Butch's lips, and she merely grinned in response. "His first three letters desired companionship. I only figured that's what every old man wants, right? That – and the chance to blow up a settlement from a balcony view, sipping scotch. Figures. His forth severed whatever relationship he wanted out of me. I just wanted him out of Megaton. There are, however, random encounters where I'll receive a few short letters out of him, or a new gun at my door because he thinks I'll make better use out of it. Sometimes he sends Talon mercenaries to kill me; his love is a funny one." She casually shrugs, letting her knees close in on the sides of Butch's hips.

"You didn't bang him, did you?" Butch couldn't suppress the jealous groan that comes from the back of his throat; he leans forward, barricading any escape with his arms. He wasn't the brightest bulb, but he understood the charms of women and their black widowed ways; there's a cold stare in Mable's blue eyes, a level heart found in her chest. She's a woman of many tricks and trades. And to think, he used to bully this woman. She could have killed him.

"Is the young buck jealous by the animal with the bigger antlers?" Mable laughs. She stops fiddling with her Pip-Boy, finding Butch more than persistent. Her Pip-Boy clad arm rests over her abdomen, while the other reaches out to trace the hollow of his darker face; a grimace follows the man's lips and she taps at his bottom lip with the tip of her finger; he's not at all amused by the vague way she implies herself. "Oh, don't give me that look. I didn't sleep with him if you're so dead-set on knowing. Besides, I don't see you writing me horribly, flowery letters."

"Would you want me to?"

"Well, I never expected -,"

"-Good, 'cause I wasn't going to."

"Then why ask?" Mable shows defiance, tilting her head to the side, trying to bring the Pip-Boy back up to her visual level. There's not a lot of room between them – that with his lowering body, and her arms being snuggly pressed back against her side. Amusement floods her when she felt his hand from the pillow, slowly drag its way down, curving over her shoulder to keep her in place while he grounded against her; she arches at the sensation finally, paying him with attention.

"Because I have something better to show than some old creep's pretty handwriting. Now c'mon girl, let me show you," Butch flashes her with his cheapest grin, hollow-point and heavy; Mable eyes him with curiosity, choking on her own laughter once she felt both of his hands slide down from her body and curve into the fabric of her nightgown, yanking it at the edge. He pulls the gown partially up, revealing the plain of her stomach and the curve of her waist.

He keeps the edge of her nightgown bundled in his palm, while his other coils into the side of her hip; he shifts, and better situates himself down the bed. His head descends, and he starts her off by running the tip of his tongue just above the pubic bone. Just above the edge of her underwear; she rewards him with a gentle gasp, and a lighter smile. The expression: _amused_ wouldn't be able to cut it with what she was feeling now.

He didn't mind the way her fingers threaded through his hair. If it was someone else other than her, he would have decked them. Her motions are lazy and languid, comforting. "I think I like this arrangement better. Besides, Mister Burke didn't have the hair you have. Poor bastard was balding the last I saw of him."

"You're just fanning my ego, babe. Geez, I might actually blush." Even through the thick of sarcasm, his 'ideal of intimacy' didn't falter. Nor, was it fleeting at a time like this. With the hand that he used to hold her hip in place, he brought it down to hook a finger in the front of her pantie, pulling and testing the elastic before he started tugging the fabric down her legs, motioning for her to lift her hips in the process. She complied, leaving the underwear lost for the moment in the bindings of covers and bedsheets.

"C'mon doll, spread a little for me. Give me something to work with," he mummers under his breath, leaving his hands to curve over the top part of her thighs, pushing them apart. Mable's hands rest over her stomach, her fingers curling into the fabric of her own nightgown to keep it out of his way, watching the few glances he gave her. He's smug. He's winning. And Mable doesn't seem to care at the moment. Not even when she watched his head lower again, and lap at her intimate parts.

She releases a content sigh, eyes drooping and finally closing; the hand that she rested on her stomach would slowly rise and find its place again on the back of his skull, trailing her nails gently back and forth, playing with a few short strands and keeping his head in place.

There's a hum that forms in the back of her throat, and Butch finds that enough reason to move on; he uses his thumb and middle finger to spread her, an easier alternative to reach a certain spot. He uses the tip of his tongue to tease her clit, then lays a solid lick down her folds once he receives a proper reaction out of her.

There's a nervous chuckle that comes from Mable's chest, anxiously twisting under the pressure of his tongue; he holds one leg down with his elbow, while the other leg is preoccupied by his free hand, calming her nerves with the soft repetition of running his fingers up and down her flank. He keeps his stomach flat on the mattress, leaning forward to match her. He grazes her slowly, purposely missing the spot several times by licking off to the side, or nipping at her inner thigh.

There's a good measure to her excitement, and he's completely enraptured to this little detail. His tongue slickens her, letting a trail of his saliva follow, nipping the sides once or twice, then slowly dragging the edge of his teeth across soft skin. Her back arches, and she strains under his forced weight, trying to calm herself once he's worked her a little harder; her fingers twists in his crownless curl, and tugs.

There's a deeper instinct that he wants to reach, and he forces himself closer to the core; his tongue flicks back and forth across her clit, circling the nub, then pressing his lips closer to the nerve to suckle on it for the moment. He releases a satisfied groan against her once he lets up, then mumbles against her, low and deep.

"Is this better than the love letters that old man's sending you? If it isn't, don't worry. I can do this all day babe, until you agree." Butch barely gives her time to answer, and instead places another solid lick across her, flattening his tongue over her center; his fingers dig into her hips when he decides to enter her with his tongue. Mable can't help the pathetic gasp that falls from her lips, trying to wiggle free out of his grasp. Her fingers are entangled by the strands of his short hair, and she takes the opportunity to press his head down deeper against her, guiding him.

Her stomach coils under the stress of the whole ordeal, and she attempts to pace herself, wanting to drag this out longer. But he looks up at her, challenging her, smiling against her sensitive flesh and she can feel it; he's bold enough to start sinking his fingers into her, curling into her while his tongue circled her clit; his pumping is slow and languid, brushing against her walls. Once he deems her loose enough, he adds another finger into the mix, resuming his practice against her.

"Butch -,"

He doesn't answer her. He refuses to answer her. And his resistance is rewarded with a strangled, helpless cry. She constricts lovingly around his fingers; she tries to squeeze her legs together, clamping his hand between her thighs, in fear of him removing himself from her fully; it left him unforgiving while he continued to agitate her during a helpless, vulnerable second.

He barely gives her time to collect herself, not while he sits up and moves up her half-nude body to kiss her plainly on the mouth. He demands forceful entry. The kiss is hard and not so easily misplaced. The saliva from their venture still hung on his bottom lip, and he enjoyed every second of it; her glasses press awkwardly against his forehead, and he takes the extra minute, the extra care, to remove them from her face just so he can kiss her again. Only this time it will be fuller.

Her abused sex presses against his bulge, and it is almost painful. _She'll get him back._


End file.
